


tender (in your arms)

by theoneinquisitor



Series: celebration fills [7]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Fluff, Just Tooth Rotting Fluff People, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 18:36:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20247445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoneinquisitor/pseuds/theoneinquisitor
Summary: The worst part of separation, the part no one ever talks about, is forgetting.Or: the one where Clarke comes home and there can never be too many ‘I love you’s’.





	tender (in your arms)

**Author's Note:**

> for [Kat](Https://viviansternwood.tumblr.com) who asked for some established relationship reunion fluff! 
> 
> (sorry it took so long, hope this melts your heart!)

The worst part of separation, the part no one ever talks about, is forgetting. 

It takes only a month to forget the feel of her next to him, the semi-permanent indent her body had created on the left side of his bed has now fixed itself, just another spot on the mattress that molds to him when he rolls over, that’s been cold for exactly thirty days. When he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine her laying next to him, can still think about the warmth of her skin, the exact curve of her hip. When his hand falls onto the empty pillow, he tells himself it’s okay. That he could never really lose  _ her.  _

He forgets her smell after six months, something he thinks is similar to lavender but not quite that, and even though he has one of her t-shirts underneath his pillow, it only smells like his shampoo and patchy drool. He buys a bottle of the soap he knows she uses, but it’s still not the same exact scent, and it’s the first real moment her absence seeps into his soul. He  _ feels  _ it. 

After eight months, he forgets the sound of her voice. On those days, he has to listen to voicemails to remind him, and he’s grateful that she had been  _ that  _ person. He always teased her for it, her love of talking on the phone and preferring call to text. Most of her voicemails are mundane: “Babe, make sure you pick up milk on your way home.” and “I think I forgot to turn my curling iron off, can you check it?” and, “You’ll never guess who I ran into today…” He laughs when he listens to them, sometimes he cries because God, he just misses her so much and he feels guilty for having to be reminded of her voice. 

When the year mark hits, his memories feel distant. The last time he held her feels like a lifetime ago, the last time he saw her smile even longer. When he scrolls through photos on his phone, when he picks the framed photos from their wedding up off the mantel, he finds himself thinking, “I could have sworn her beauty mark was on the right side.” and “Were her eyes always  _ that  _ shade of blue?” 

After that, it all becomes a distant ache. He misses her the same way he would miss limb, hard to adjust to at first but at some point it becomes the only life you know. It’s learning to live without, even if you wish you weren’t. He’s spent exactly x amount of days without Clarke, it’s just another one. And another one. Normal. It becomes normal and he hates that. 

“She couldn’t have just gone on her search for meaning in a place with Wi-fi?” Miller asks on a particularly bad day. Bellamy’s depression beard has made a full come back, thanks to the holidays and a particularly lacking letter he received in the mail last week. 

_ Bellamy,  _ it read. Not “Bell”, not “Babe”. Just his fucking name. 

_ I won’t be able to write much. We’re on the move to another village. There was an Earthquake last night, so we’re trying to get there as soon as possible. It’s been a crazy twelve hours. I hope everything is okay back at home. Take care of yourself please. I’ll try to write soon!  _

_ Clarke _

Normally, her letters always ended with an “I love you” or an “Always”, but this one was empty and he’s been overthinking it. It’s what he does. 

“Man, she’s probably fine,” Miller hands back the small piece of paper, lifting his beer to his lips. “She said it herself, she was in a rush.”

“She wrote that two weeks ago.”

“Well, maybe it was a bad Earthquake.” It was. An 8.5 on the scale in a third world country is by every standard, not good. From pictures he’s seen on CNN and NPR, the devastation is catastrophic.

Logically, Bellamy knows that she’s probably busy saving lives and risking her own to do it. Writing shouldn’t be at the top of her priority list, but damn it, he’s been without his wife for almost 400 days, and he’s going crazy. He’s forgetting and growing complacent and it feels wrong. It feels wrong to be going to their friend’s weddings without her and chatting with other people about her endeavors. Sometimes when he talks about her, people look concerned because he talks about her in past tense. He can read it in their eyes, the whole,  _ oh my God, his wife is dead, this poor guy.  _ And then he has to make sure to be like: “Oh no, she just decided to do mission work for the Red Cross,” which always glosses things over, because then they have questions and it always ends with: “Wow, you must be really strong. I could never let [insert name here] leave me for that long.” 

“Did you know we’ve spent more time apart than together since we got married?” It’s a fact he hates saying aloud, because there is bitterness there even if he doesn’t want it to be. He has no right to feel this way, no right to blame her for leaving, especially since he’s the one who told her to go. 

Since he met Clarke— all five feet, five inches of pure, beautiful terror— she’s always dreamed of traveling. Not exactly in the conventional way - hotel stays and coffee in front of the Eiffel Tower, but as a nurse. They were 18 when they very literally ran into each other, her stack of anthropology and anatomy books clattering the ground. He was impressed by her immediately, taken in by her smile and sheer determination. When they started dating, she always told him that her dreams came first. It was the condition to their relationship, because neither one had really been aiming to meet their soulmate at 18 years old, and looking back he wants to smack himself for being stupid enough to have a ‘conditional relationship’ because, honest to God, he’d follow that woman to the ends of the Earth and he knows she would do the same. 

When she was given the opportunity to sign on with the Red Cross for two years, it was hard. She applied for the position four years ago, and both of them had thought it wasn’t in the cards. For fucks sake, who takes that long to respond to an application? But then, just six months after their Wedding, she gets a call and when she tells him about it, her eyes are shining with excitement and fear and he could never, and if he could go back in time  _ would never  _ tell her to turn it down. 

The things we do for love. 

He had thought he was prepared, thought she’d be able to call or email. Video chat on occasion. Maybe come home for holidays or small leaves of absence. But that’s not how it worked. She’s been in South America for most of the year, in small villages where internet doesn’t exist and phone service is reserved for contact within the Red Cross. Vacation? None. At least, not one that involves getting to come home. She’s had days off. A week off. During that time, her and the other nurses will do a little bit of local traveling. They’ll find a beach if it’s around. She’d tell him all about it in her letters. Letters that come sporadically. Sometimes he’ll get three in a week, sometimes one in a month. And he always has to wait for her to send him one letting him know if they’re moving or where to send his own, because it changes fairly often and he doesn’t want to be sending letter into the abyss. 

It’s fucking exhausting, if he’s being honest. 

“I’m gonna head out,” Miller finishes off his beer and pats him on the shoulder, “As great as your company has been, I have a date.” 

“No shit,” that actually makes him smile, “Another Tinder match?”

“God, no. I gave that up a while ago. I met him at the doctor’s office, actually.”

“Oh yeah?”

“He’s a, uh, doctor.” 

Bellamy lets out a low whistle, “Be careful, doctors are handful.”

“Clarke’s a nurse,” Miller rolls his eyes, “And isn’t that exactly why you married her, anyway?” 

It is. No one’s ever challenged him the way she has. Made him want to pull his hair out while simultaneously making his heart feel like it might combust. Loving her has been the greatest adventure he’s ever had, even on days like this when he misses her something crazy. 

+

She had an entire surprise planned out and it’s all gone to shit. That’s the problem with flying international— it’s unpredictable and thanks to two flight delays, she’s having to Uber her way home from the airport at one o’clock in the morning. 

The plan had been for Miller to pick her up at the airport so she could surprise Bellamy at home, mostly for her own selfish reasons because, God, the moment she sees him she wants to be able to scream and jump and kiss him until he can’t breath. Jump his bones, essentially, because she’s missed her fucking husband. 

She smiles to herself, still giddy about the fact that she gets to call him that. Nearly seven years into their relationship, and he still makes her heart race. Still makes her feel like the luckiest girl in the world. She’s never met anyone like him -- thoughtful, loving, and kind, stubborn, meticulous, and infuriating on occasion. He’s special, she’s known it since the day they slammed into one another in the library. The way he looked at her and has looked at her ever since, like she’s the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. 

She sighs, leaning her head on the window in the backseat, admiring the lights her small little town has put up for the holidays. THis is always her favorite time of year, something Bellamy pretends he hates, though she’s sure he secretly loves her enthusiasm for it. The Uber driver has the holiday station playing at low volume: Wham!’s _ Last Christmas,  _

As far as she remembers, everything is relatively the same. She’s not sure what she expected, maybe an entirely new town by the time she returned. After all, two years -- well, a year and some change -- is a long time to be away and Arkadia has been priding itself on it’s up and coming attractions. But it seems, per usual, it was all talk and no action and Clarke can’t say she minds. 

Her phone buzzes, a new email from the Red Cross popping up on her screen. It’s her leave paperwork, finally coming through after months and months of waiting on it. She had filled it out back in  _ June,  _ but to get any time off, especially extended, is a pain in the ass. They have to plan for coverage and she had requested a month, so it was an unusually difficult process. In truth, the only reason she was approved is because her Supervisor thinks the world of her and she had been on the verge of going insane, especially after the latest disaster in Peru. She just needed time away from the trauma, from the stress. She needed to see her husband. 

The Uber turns onto her street and suddenly, she’s 18 again. HEr stomach fills with butterflies, fluttering around so manically, she feels nauseous. The initial excitement of coming home is suddenly anxiety:  _ what if he’s mad at me for leaving? What if he doesn’t love me anymore? What if I hardly recognize him? What if it’s weird?  _ By the time they pull outside the house, their small little bungalow on the corner of the street, she’s shaking. The driver grabs her bag from the trunk and hands it to her with a smile, “Welcome home.” 

She stands at the end of their walkway for a moment, feeling tears well up as she takes in the sight. He still decorated for the holidays, the icicle lights she had convinced him to buy years ago blinking shades of blue from where they hang along the roof. There are candy canes lined along the path, accentuated further by the giant blow up Santa in the yard. Bellamy  _ hates  _ that Santa, would complain every time he had to put it up, though he always did because he knows how much she loves it and that man has always done whatever it takes to make her happy. 

She shoves her key in the lock, her emotions threatening to spill over, a mix of gratitude and love and fear all wrapped into her trembling hands. The door creaks open, hitting the wall with a light thunk. She’s  _ home.  _

Except the moment is soon ruined by the shrill sound of their alarm, and  _ fuck  _ she forgot about that. He had installed it right before she left and, son of bitch, what’s the code. She drops her bags at the door and stumbles over to the wall, the panel blinking brightly at her. She has forty seconds to put in the code and she can’t remember what it is. 

“Shit, shit, shit,” she hisses, racking her brain for the set of four numbers. It’s not either one of their birthdays, she remembers Bellamy explicitly saying that it can’t be too easy. Not their socials, not their wedding anniversary, what the hell would they have picked that they would both remember -- the day they met! She types in 0924 as the living room light flips on. She sags into the wall and lets out a breath. . 

“Clarke?” 

His voice sends an involuntary shiver down her spine. When he finally comes into focus, she has half a mind to double over laughing and jump into his arms. He’s in nothing put a pair of sweatpants, hair half up from where he must have been sleeping on it. His arm is raised, a Louisville Slugger clutched in his fist like he was prepared to use it and she wants to say, “Oh sweetie, what’s a bat going to do to an intruder?” 

Instead, all she can do is smile and say, “Surprise?” 

And then the bat clatters to the ground as he lunges towards her, while she launches herself from the ground. He’s solid when she hits him, one mass body of muscle and strength, and his arms wrap around her waist, nearly overlapping as he holds her to his chest. Before she even knows what’s happening, she’s crying into the crook of his neck and he’s running a hand through her hair, pressing kisses to her head, her cheek, her ear, anything he can put his lips on.

“You’re home,” he’s awestruck, touching her like he thinks she might disappear right in front of him. She pulls back, finally taking a moment to look at him and he does the same, his gaze intent as he takes her in. His fingers twirl the ends of her golden hair, just above her shoulder, “You cut your hair.” 

She runs the palm of her hand over the patchy hair on his cheek, “You grew a beard.” 

“Attempted,” he laughs with a tilt of his head and she can’t take it anymore, she presses her lips to his and this, this moment is exactly the kind of moment she wishes she could bottle up and keep forever. 

By the time they pull away, they’re both laughing and panting, wiping tears from the others cheeks. He leans his forehead on hers, his breath warm as it ghosts along her face, “I missed you so much.” 

“I missed you,” she replies, keeping her limbs wrapped around him like a pretzel. “Sorry it wasn’t more romantic. My flight got delayed so, my big surprise got ruined.” 

He carries her to the couch, sitting down so that she’s straddling his lap, facing him with a wide grin. His hands trace along the curve of her waist, scratch at the base of her spine, and she sinks into it. It’s been too long since she’s felt his hands on her like this. 

“What was your big plan?” 

“Miller was going to pick me up and have you come outside. I was going to have flowers and  _ everything.” _

“Such a romantic,” he nuzzles into her neck, nosing at the sharp angle of her jaw, “If I had known you were coming home, I would have went all out. Romantic music, a big sign. Chocolates!” 

“Mmm. Believe it or not, the fact that you decorated was the best coming home present ever!” 

“It killed me to do it, you know?” 

She laughs. “I’m sure. Do you die a little inside every time you walk past Santa?” 

“We’re lying to children, Clarke! He’s a sham! And it’s cre—“

She cuts him off with another kiss, unable to control herself because he’s just so fucking cute when he goes on tangeants. When she pulls back and leans her forehead on his, they let out a collective, contented sigh. Her heart is pounding in her chest, the joy of being near him so overwhelming that she feels like she might cry. 

A sob pushed its way out of her chest and okay, she’s definitely going to cry. 

“I missed you so much,” she tells him again, running her fingers along his cheek. He’s here, right in front of her. She can touch him and love him and just be  _ with  _ him.

And it seems he’s somewhere on that same plane of semi-existence with her, like he can’t quite believe she’s in his lap, attached to him like a fucking a koala bear, because his hands are grazing every inch of her as if to make sure she’s real. 

He wipes the tears from her cheek, his own eyes shining as he looks at her. “I hope you don’t plan on leaving the house any time soon.” 

Her laugh is watery, “You’ve got me for three weeks, Blake. Hold me hostage as long as you like.” 

“Thank you for your permission,” he grins, and then he’s hoisting them both of the couch and she’s over his shoulder in a fit of obnoxious giggles. He drops her on their bed and she moans happily at the contact of a soft, comfortable mattress. 

“Should I leave you and the bed alone?” He asks, crawling up her body and kissing her nose. 

“Mm, maybe, I’m definitely hoping to reestablish my bond with it.” 

“Yeah?”

She loops her arms around his neck and smirks, “Yeah, but I was hoping you’d help me out with that.”

“Gladly,” he smiles, tucking one of her wild curls behind her ear. He grows pensive for a moment before, “I want you to tell me all about it. The work, I mean. All the stories. The things you couldn’t write. I’m so proud of you, you know that don’t you?”

Just when she thinks her heart can’t take anymore, it skips. She loves this man. 

“I know, babe. You have no idea how grateful I am for you. How lucky I feel to have you and to get the support you give me. I really feel like I’ve won the lottery with you.” 

He kisses her cheek. “I’m definitely the lucky one.” 

“Normally, I’d fight you on it but right now, I just want to love my husband.” 

“Yeah,” he nips at her neck playfully, “I know exactly what you  _ missed.”  _

She takes the opportunity to hook her leg around his waist and push him over, reversing their position. She grins smugly when she pins his arms above his head. 

“God, I love you.” 

She leans down, her lips hovering just above his, “Yeah? Show me.” 

And he does. In every way imaginable 

+

By the time she falls asleep, curled around Bellamy like an inch of space might actually kill them (it would, he thinks), the sun is nearly up. He watches her sleep, watches the rise and fall of her back and traces idle patterns along the bare skin of her back. 

As it turns out, the worst part of separation isn’t forgetting. In the end, at least. Every little detail he had worried he’d lost, every inch of her that he’d thought he couldn’t remember: relearning them is the best part. A year is a long time. People change, bodies change, spirits change. But loving someone means getting to adapt with them, learning the new that comes with it. 

Clarke’s tan is uneven, a clear line where her scrubs end and her exposed skin would begin. Her hair is shorter. She’s no longer ticklish on her sides, but on her stomach. She has new pockets of skin she didn’t have before; her thighs are softer, her curves more defined. 

“The food there is really good.” She had blushed when he had laid her across the bed to look at her, wanting to see the woman he loved before making love to her. 

“I’ve never seen anyone more beautiful,” he tells her reverently and he’s never spoken a truer statement.

She’s louder. She’s free and fierce and loving. She’s everything she was and yet somehow more and he’s never been more in love with her than in this moment. And he knows that it’s a statement that will continue to changes. There will be new moments and he can’t think of a better way to spend forever. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are always appreciated.  
I’m new to writing copious amounts of fluff, but I’m tRyInG. 
> 
> find me on [Tumblr!](Https://octannibal-Blake.tumblr.com)


End file.
